Author's Notes: This chapter is set during "Games." Be aware that this chapter also contains explicit sexual situations, including spanking and orgasm denial. Don't like it? Don't read. If you do read, please feel free to leave a review. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own the show.
Darker Inclinations
Chapter Two: Tell me your fears
By Duckie Nicks
Indecision characterizes the next few days for them both. Pressured into choosing, he isn't ready to pick his team. He asks everyone what they would do, even Cuddy herself. She tells him Taub and Kutner, to confuse him, to distract from her own predicament. Afterwards, upon reflection, she wasn't lying when she gave her answers; Taub and Kutner would be assets, as would any of the people left in the game. But she varies her response to make the decision harder for House. Selfishly she doesn't want his attention on her issue.
Thankfully, frustratingly, the last couple of days have prevented him from coming over and vice versa. They've been so busy they haven't even had a chance to discuss the list she's supposed to be writing. And while she wishes she could see him, be with him, she's not all that eager to admit that she hasn't worked on her so-called homework.
No doubt, he'll take it to mean that she's backing out of the relationship she initiated. But in fact she's not having second thoughts at all. That's not the issue, nor is the problem one of believing a list is unimportant. She has seen its necessity with her own eyes and knows that they can't move forward without those limitations in place. But that's the problem for her: deciding what those boundaries will be.
Her office only a few feet away from the clinic, she has seen sex gone wrong many, many times over the years. Rumor has it House once pulled an iPod out of a young man's anus, and from her experience, she doesn't doubt that it actually happened. In her opinion, that's something that should go without saying she doesn't want. It should be assumed. But then what if it's not what? If she doesn't specify that that's not okay, will he think it is? Or worse, will he believe that she's into that? She wants to think that he's not the type to be interested in something as stupid and dangerous as that, but if she's wrong, what happens then?
Then she starts to believe that it would be smart just to put it on the list, regardless of how unlikely a possibility it is. But when faced with the task of writing "No iPods in my ass (or any other orifice)," she finds the words too ridiculous to commit to paper or Word document. And then, in a moment of oppressing self-awareness, she doesn't want to write anything down ever. The whole thing just seems absurd.
But she knows that if she gives into that thought, she will undo everything she has set out to have. Fear will prevent her from having the relationship she wants, and that simply is not an option. She will have to make the list.
She will.
That's the conclusion she comes to each and every time she mentally goes down this road.
Still.
When it comes to completing the task, she has trouble doing it. Uncharacteristic insecurity returns no matter how hard she tries to keep it at bay.
Tonight she doesn't even bother to try when she gets home. Of course that might have more to do with hunger than lack of motivation, but she spends her early evening making dinner, reading reports, pretending like she has nothing else to do.
In the moments between actions, however, her mind wanders to the source of her problem, to the one responsible. Sitting alone at her dining room table, eating supper alone… she didn't think it would be like this. It's understandable that there will be times when he can't be with her, times when work has to come first. She gets that. But in her head, maybe, she assumed it would be different. She didn't expect entering a relationship to feel so similar to being all alone. As scary as the possibility of change is, the lack of change bothers her just as much. The loneliness disappoints her, the silence working her wrong, into agitation, into a melancholy that she has a hard time fighting.
When her phone rings, she hesitates to answer. She feels surly, not entirely convinced that she will able to keep that to herself if she speaks. But the ringing is intrusive enough that unhappy or not, she is compelled to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Well, your panties sound like they're in a bunch," he says flatly over the phone.
She feels relieved to hear his voice. "House."
He must notice the change in her voice, because he says, "That's much better. Although if you're willing to say my name like that –"
"Like what?"
"Like you want me. It must mean you're alone. You better be anyway."
"I'm home by myself." She tries not to sound too upset by that fact. If only because it makes her sound pathetic, she doesn't want him to hear that in her voice and then assume that she can't bear to be away from him. She can be; right now she would just rather not. But that's a finer point, which will be lost on him, so she asks immediately, "Can you talk? Where are you?"
"My balcony."
She frowns. "So this is a work-related call."
"Don't sound so disappointed. On the other hand, feel free to jump up and down when I tell you it's not a work call. I can't see it, of course, but just the mental picture of your breasts – are you wearing a bra?"
The frown remains. "You're talking to me like that while you're at work."
She can practically hear the grin. "Team's running tests. I said I needed time to think. And there's this little thing called windows, so if they figure something out, I'll see them coming."
"Oh." It's comforting enough, but she still feels uneasy. "Shouldn't you be focused on your patient?"
"I need a break."
"But –"
"The monotony is making this harder than I suspect it needs to be. So humor me for a little bit." It's not a command, but there's no time for her to say no… not that she really wants to say that. He continues, asking, "How's your list coming along?"
Her first instinct is to lie, so she does. "Fine."
"Really?" He's doubtful. She can tell. "What's on the list?"
She lies again. "I just sat down for dinner. I don't have the list in front of me to –"
"You don't know off the top of your head?"
"I do, but I want to make sure the wording is right. I don't want you to misunderstand." More lies.
"My I.Q. makes geniuses look stupid. I'm not going to misunderstand." There's a pause, a moment where he gets it and she knows he does. "You haven't started."
"Of course I have."
"No. No, you haven't."
"That's not –"
"Really? You're going to waste my time lying about it?"
His harsh tone makes her ashamed to have behaved that way, makes her realize how ridiculous it is to lie. Even if he did believe her now, he's going to know the truth soon enough.
"Fine. I don't have a list."
"Why not?" He is displeased.
She struggles to explain herself. "I… don't know. I've tried to come up with things, but every time I sit down to do it, I just can't."
"And you didn't just come right out and say that because?"
"I didn't want you to think I wasn't serious about –"
"I don't think that," he stresses. "Unless, of course, you don't give me a reason, and then –"
"I don't know what the problem is." She looks down in her lap, as though the answer will appear there. "I don't know," she repeats. The sentiment is one she's said so many times lately that it makes her feel like a complete fool. How can she make a list if she has no clue what she's doing? "I sit down. I try to write something down. And I can't. I just get distracted wondering if I should… include the obvious."
"The obvious?" Before she can clarify, he says, "Oh." He's quiet, perhaps to let her explain, but she has nothing to add to what she's already said. The problem can't be enlightened upon by her. If she knows anything, it's that. He does well on his own anyway. "Yeah, I'm aware that dips in the kiddy pool and frolics on the farm are out of bounds. You don't need to worry about coming home to a bed full of sheep and toddlers."
"Obviously not."
His voice even, he explains, "This isn't about the obvious, Cuddy. This is about the unobvious. Things you definitely don't want, but things I might not know about." He exhales roughly into the phone. "If it makes you feel better to list what we both already know, by all means, do that."
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not?"
She is becoming frustrated. This isn't what she wants to hear. "No. It's not. What happens if I think something is obvious and then it's not? What do –"
"Wow," he interrupts, sounding amazed. "You've really managed to get worked up over this."
"Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot."
"I'm not. I'm impressed, actually, by the mental Olympics you've had to go through to make this –"
"This is already hard enough," she admits. "Without you making it worse."
There's a long pause after she says that. He slowly regroups.
"If I do something you aren't comfortable with, you already have the means to stop me. Yak. Remember?"
"Yes."
She expects him to rub her answer in her face. But instead, he's actually kind. "If that happens, you have complete power to stop me. And you know I will, because I have no interest in forcing you to do something you don't want. I don't get off on that." He lets the thought settle before adding, "And if there's something that bothers you, we won't keep doing it. We'll add it to your list – never do it again."
He's so disagreeable professionally that her instinct is to assume he's lying or at least making a promise he can't keep. Then she realizes what she's saying. If she really believes that he would ignore her limits, make her do things she didn't want to do… why would she want to be anywhere near him, much less date him, and much less date him in the manner that she's proposed?
She wouldn't.
She couldn't.
In order to get this far, she had to trust him. The same is true now.
"I know," she says eventually. "I'm sorry."
"'S fine. Just make the list."
"I'll try," she promises.
But it's not enough for him. "You're treating this like it's complicated, and it's not. Don't try to do it. Just write something down. Even if you think it's stupid."
His unwavering confidence is annoying yet soothing too. She thinks this will be hard, but he seems to have no doubt about her ability to do it. Maybe he believes she is braver than she is, better at ignoring the reservations she has. And that, while wrong, actually makes him right in the end. He doesn't see failure as a possibility. He trusts her enough to see strength where she's been convinced none exists. She won't disappoint him because of that belief in her. It means too much to her.
At that moment, she remembers a bottle of wine crammed into the back of her refrigerator. Unopened, it is, she thinks, a back up plan if need be. Inebriation has never awakened honesty or clear thought within her, but alcohol has better results when it comes to aiding a loss in her inhibitions. Even if that doesn't work, at least she'll be able to claim, no matter how untrue, that the liquor made her do it.
"You're right. I can do it."
"Good."
With the matter dealt with, she changes the subject. "You said your team was –"
"Uh uh," he says, cutting her off. "That's forbidden. You wanted to keep things separate."
She rolls her eyes. "I'm just asking how your patient is doing."
"I'm here, and you're there. That pretty much tells you everything."
She licks her lips, runs a hand along her forehead. "I'm just trying to make conversation."
"Okay, well, forget the patient, because his current, still-dying status isn't interesting to me or to you. On the other hand," he says, his voice suddenly bright. "There's still the matter of your punishment, which we haven't –"
"Punishment?" she scoffs. She's in disbelief, but more than anything she's just amused. "What have I done?"
"What have you done? Where do I start? There's, like, six things: you didn't do what you said you would. You didn't tell me that you were having a problem writing the list. You lied when I brought it up – several times. And you just broke your own rule about mixing work and –"
"I get your point," she says quietly. "But that's only four –"
"Yeah… correcting my math isn't exactly the way to get out of this."
She smiles though he can't see it. "I'm not trying to get out of it."
"So then you're just being a bitch."
"Yes."
His laugh is soft… short. Quickly he slips into silence, the quiet almost enough to make her think that the line has gone dead. There's no way though he'll let the conversation end now; he's about to reveal what her punishment is – and she has no doubts that he wants her to twist with discomfort over what she has coming her way.
Already it's working.
"Well," she prompts.
"I'm thinking." She's about to ask him how hard can it be when he comes up with the solution to his problem. "Got it. Tonight you're going to masturbate."
She's taken aback, thinks she must have misheard. "Masturbate? That's not a punishment."
"But it is. Because right when you're about to come, you have to stop."
Cuddy doesn't immediately voice how stupid his plan sounds, is. Based on her own behavior the past couple days, she gets that this is a precarious dynamic between them. Self-consciousness constantly threatens, lingers around as if waiting for a moment of doubt. At least… it does for her. She's not exactly sure where he stands, but what she does know is that it's imperative for her to measure her criticism and deprecation carefully. She doesn't want to scare him off. She doesn't want to scare herself away. And when she has all the power in the relationship to stop him, it's wrong to abuse that. Even if only to make fun of him or his "punishments," her words have to be carefully chosen. There are so many ways this can fail; casual callousness is not something she will tolerate from herself.
So yes, she could say that he has no way of enforcing said punishment. She could make fun of him for even suggesting it as a way to correct a wrong. But she will keep those thoughts to herself. Unless he has her doing something she is uncomfortable with, offended by, there's no good reason to say anything negative.
Not right now anyway.
"Fine," she says after a moment. There's little chance she'll be able to follow through, but if he believes she will, that's what matters, right?
If he has his doubts, he doesn't have a chance to share. At that moment, she hears voices on the other end of the line, like people are talking to House, trying to get his attention. And that must be the case, because he quickly says, "Gotta go," before hanging up.
"…Bye" is the dejected response she utters, despite the fact that he can't hear it.
Alone again she fights the urge to turn sullen. This isn't what she expected, but the more she gives into that disappointment, the increasingly immature she realizes she's being. And in the end, when it's only making her miserable, there's no reason to continue to give into that feeling.
She resolves to ignore her reservations, and perhaps the best way to do that is to complete the very list she's struggled over. Action eases tension, always has for her. It's no different now. And with the added guidance from House to help her, this time, the task isn't as difficult.
She's curled up in the armchair in her living room, steam from a hot mug of tea unwinding into the air nearby (wine on standby in case things don't go as planned). The seasons changing, the weather is cold, brutally unfriendly; if she could bother to do it, she would build a fire. But focused on getting this done, she settles for the warmth of an afghan her grandmother once knitted and the searing bright light of a lamp beside her.
A pen and pad of paper in her lap, she tries again. This time she doesn't hesitate to add the things that seem obvious. Afterwards it's possible she'll just rip those items – children, animals, anything involving latex bodysuits – off the top. But at least if it's written, she can't continue to wonder whether or not to include them; it will be done.
Once she's free of that concern, the rest isn't so hard. She no longer has to think of every possible proclivity she won't enjoy; House's reassurance has made that clear, and the job isn't as daunting as a result. It's obvious to her now that she can make additions if necessary, and that puts her at ease. That he has said he will stop if she's uncomfortable does more than relax her.
It makes her realize that all of this has been the right choice for her.
That he is the right person to do this with.
And that too makes it easier for her to write down what she knows she could never tolerate. Being tied down – she doesn't like that idea; the loss of control, the inability to do anything if something went wrong, makes it unappealing to her. She writes it down. Other sex acts follow: choking, being hit with a belt, being burned. In other words, anything that might harm her permanently is out of the question.
She adds a few things after that, including the weirder sex acts that she knows of, has no interest in. "Any object a clinic patient would ask you to remove from his/her urethra, vagina, rectum, etc" is her way of bypassing the iPod dilemma. It's unlikely though that he will be disappointed by that. On the other hand, she knows "No cameras of any sort" will be difficult for him to accept. He will, of course; this is something she'll never budge on, and if she couches it as only wanting to be this way for him, he'll go along with it out of a sense of possession. But before that happens, she anticipates some resistance.
That's all right however. For her it's not about having the same interests. It's that he will defer to hers, and she believes him when he says he won't force her to do something she doesn't want. He likes making her twist, pushing her to her limits, but he enjoys that, because he enjoys her capitulation. He likes seeing what she'll do to resist him or to defend him. Forcing her to do what he wants against her will is not his style, and he has made her believe that that won't change because of sex.
Why should it change? She's giving him permission to do… well, just about anything not on this list. But taking advantage of that in the worst way possible would be as problematic for him as it would be for her. If he did something to her, she knows he's not stupid enough to think he could go to work Monday morning like nothing happened. With this relationship, they both have something to lose if they mistreat one another. If things don't work out, they are both completely screwed.
The danger simply cements her trust in him, her desire for him. If they are to destroy their professional relationship with this, then she wants to throw herself into it completely – make it worth the somewhat inevitable conclusion. And that provides the impetus for her to finish writing the last few things down she won't do.
She notices it then. She's getting turned on. Not by the things she's writing, because there's nothing about feet she finds attractive. It's the act of writing the words down itself that she finds pleasure in. The more she lets him into her mind, the stronger the bond between them seems, the more turned on she is. Trust in him makes her want to give him all the control in the world. It makes her wish he were here to have sex with her until she passes out.
But he's not here. Unless his patient makes a miraculous recovery, House won't be here for a while.
She tells herself that "a while" will only be a few days at most. She's looked at the charts. That man won't last much longer if House doesn't cure him. And if House doesn't get it right in time, he'll be too frustrated by his own limitations to want to be with her. Again though, even factoring that in, she figures that will only last a couple days before he comes to her. But for her, any delay borders on torture. She's in this all alone right now, making decisions for them both when the matter isn't even on his mind.
When he doesn't even have time to deliver her punishment himself, it hardly feels like they're in a relationship.
Then again… he has told her what he wants her to do. At first Cuddy didn't have any intention of listening to him, but now, perhaps, she should. She's frustrated enough right now that she doesn't think she can handle any more. But if she's doing what he wants, if she's pleasing him – even from this distance – maybe it will make her feel closer to him.
No.
As soon as she thinks that, she gets how stupid it sounds. Whatever desire she might have had to follow orders is now gone, and she can't talk herself into doing what he wants either. Well, that might not be exactly true. She probably can convince herself to listen. But since House will never know whether or not she masturbated without orgasm, she sees no reason to make herself more miserable.
Besides, she's tired, cold, head filled with images of things she'll never find sexy. She doesn't want to touch herself if she has the option of a man in her bed, and she certainly doesn't want to settle for less if she's not even allowed to enjoy it. So, she decides, she won't. She'll just lie when he asks. And if he believes she's lying… that's not exactly bad for her, is it? If it forces him to take matters into his own hands, well, that's what she's wanted, right?
The more she thinks about it, it seems increasingly like the right choice for her. By the time she crawls into bed she has no doubt whatsoever.
Assurance fails to last. Just when she's starting to take it for granted, she hears him sneaking into her home once more. The uneven steps in her hallway reveal the intruder. The quiet pause, as he no doubt reads her list, cements the fact that it's House. From their phone call, she got the impression that he wasn't going to come over. That's why she was supposed to touch herself, because he couldn't be here. But he's changed his mind.
Unprepared she's not ready to lie. She can and will, of course. Regardless of how deep they go into this, she will never be submissive enough to admit her wrongs immediately. Why would she when there's the potential thrill of getting away with her crime?
She realizes with dread that that question is irrelevant right now. There's just no way she'll convince him of anything. Maybe if she were brimming with energy, she could, but as it is, she isn't in any position to throw herself into acting out the frustration she would feel if she did as she was told. The only irritation she's feeling is from being alone.
And the second he steps through the doorway to the bedroom, that's gone. She fights the urge to smile (and barely wins) when she sees him.
"House." The happiness barrels through in the way she says his name.
He leans against the doorframe. "You're lucky it's me. What if I was a burglar?"
"If you were a burglar, I don't think you'd use the front door."
"But finding your spare key is so easy."
"How would anyone find it when you've clearly taken it?" she asks knowingly. Until then she wasn't aware of that truth. The other evening he slipped his way inside using the key, and she thought nothing more of it. Now that he's here again, she starts to comprehend that he wouldn't have bothered to search for the key more than once. He doesn't like to make the same mistakes twice, waste time when he doesn't have to. As soon as he found a permanent way in, he would keep it. She sees that now.
He seems to appreciate the display of deduction. "So you noticed."
"Of course."
The confident jut of her chin is ignored as he moves closer to her. He simply goes back to the original issue. "I could have been a burglar."
"I'd take my chances with a burglar who limps," she says while he sits down on the edge of the bed next to her.
One of hands sliding over her waist, he leans over her and kisses her. She responds immediately to his closeness, to the touch of his warm mouth, and the heat of his stubble against her chin. Part of her is sure as she pulls him closer that this will be her permanent undoing. No matter how much she trusts him, no matter how sure she is of eventual disaster, he will ruin her. No one else has ever managed to make her feel this way. He effortlessly brings her under his control, makes her long for him in seconds. She has power in this relationship, but she is powerless to resist him when she's alone with him. She's worked side by side with him for years, and yet she had no idea that her attraction for him went this deep, that she was this alone without him.
Embarrassment ripples through her like a skipping stone through water. But with her body lost in his kiss, the feeling is swept away on a wave of longing for him that leaves her wanting more when he pulls away.
"Thanks for the list," he says in a voice that somehow bridges the gap between honest and sarcastic. Given what she's gone through to write said list, she is less than impressed by his tone. "What?" he asks, sensing her disapproval. "You want me to pat you on the head for –"
"No. But a little recognition that doing that wasn't the easiest –"
"I didn't say it was easy."
She straightens the bed sheets around her chest. "You could be more appreciative is –"
"Believe me. I am. Very appreciative."
"Are you?"
He nods his head. "We can move forward now, and you don't have to worry that I'm going to jam a banana in your ass and stuff you into a latex catsuit," he says flatly. "For the record, that was never on the menu."
She smiles weakly. "I'm glad."
"Yes…." He takes in her demeanor. The room is cast in moonlight and the weak light from the hallway, and he must have trouble making out her face. But he can see clearly enough, because suddenly, he asks almost accusingly, "Did you do what you were asked?"
He suspects. There's no way he doesn't.
"Yes," she lies.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"You're lying."
"No, I'm –"
"Are we going to do this every single time? You lie to me, and I know you're lying to me, and you know I know you're lying to me, and you're not going to admit it to me until I force it out of you?"
Silently the answer is yes. What she says allowed, however, is, "What makes you think I haven't done what you asked?"
"You're in too good a mood," he says, eyes narrowing in judgment.
She shrugs. "That might have something to do with you being here." Sad as it sounds, it is at least partially truthful. Whatever misery she felt before, it has left her now that she gets to see him. The stall in the relationship has tormented her, and with that temporarily gone, she can't help but be in a better mood.
But because the sentiment is clichéd and saccharine, it's one he opts not to believe. Unmoved he sits back and asks her directly, "Where's your hairbrush? That wasn't on your list, right?"
Her throat tightens as she realizes what is about to happen. Blush instantly settles across her cheeks, and anticipation mingles with dread as she struggles to find the words he wants. "No…it's not. I-It's in the bathroom."
"Stay."
As if moving much less leaving are even possibilities, she thinks. He slips away from her to retrieve the item in question, and she is frozen in place. She can stop him if she wants to. She can get up and run if fear overwhelms her. That's something she recognizes as he leaves the room. None of this has to happen, assuming she has any idea what this really is.
But she does as she's told.
It seems so stupid… and wrong to wait for his return, to anticipate it with a keen longing. Her mind has cosigned the endeavor, but her body seems to belong to someone else, ruled by something she can't quite name. And yet none of that makes her move or call the whole thing off. She lies there and waits, and when he finally emerges from the bathroom once more, her heart pounds with eagerness.
She catches sight of the brush, and she feels lightheaded, dizzy with need.
As he moves in front of her once again, he slaps the palm of his hand lightly with the brush threateningly. His gaze remains relaxed however, like nothing is about to happen. His tone is similar – conversational, without a care in the world.
"Now... you have one more time to tell me the truth."
Like that will ever happen. "I already did," she says with force. Before she wasn't sure she could commit to the lie. Now the thrill of the game has her forgetting the exhaustion she felt earlier. She can say and do whatever she wants with bravado, because she knows what the result will be.
"That's unfortunate." His dismay is forced. With his free hand, he draws a circle in the air, a silent instruction to roll over.
Forcing herself not to seem too eager, she moves slowly. The thick covers on top of her help impede the motion. In a way though, that just makes things worse. He watches her with heated eyes. It's as though he can't believe she's willing to let him do this and, at the same time, can't wait to smack her ass. He's turned on, mesmerized by her every move, and because of that, she's never felt more attractive. He wants her so much.
And she wants him.
She wants what he will do.
By the time he carefully peels back the sheets, she blurts out feverishly, "Okay, I didn't do what you wanted." So much for being interested in getting away with the lie, she tells herself.
He must mistake her words for wanting to avoid punishment instead of the product of her desire for the spanking he's about to give her. Because he is adamant. "It's too late for honesty. You had your chance to make this right. Now you have to accept the consequences of your actions."
His hand tucks into the center of her shorts, right at the small of her back. Fingertips glide along the seam of her ass, stroke her lightly as he pulls the clothing off. When her bottoms are at her knees, he stops tugging, steps back instead. She doesn't look back at him. She doesn't need to to know that he's staring at her lying there, head resting against her pillow, ass exposed to him.
"Tell me what you did," he instructs.
The demand for confession leaves her ambivalent. On the one hand, needy, she doesn't want to state what they both know. That just wastes time, delays the moment when he'll hit her. On the other hand, being forced to admit her crimes heightens that need. She likes the idea of being bad, of being punished, being absolved of her sins. Even if she hasn't really done anything wrong, the honesty the act requires appeals to her.
Impatient, House snaps, "Do you want to make this worse? Because you're already in enough trouble, and while I'd love to give you extras for hesitation, I'm not sure you're going to enjoy it when your ass is red."
Her tone is equally perturbed. "All right already. I'll say it."
She sees him crane his neck back at the way she speaks to him. He shakes his head. "I would reconsider your tone when you're at my mercy."
She keeps that in mind... for the times she feels that provoking him is necessary. Tonight though, she'll play it straight, ignore him. Doing as he originally asked, Cuddy admits, "I didn't masturbate like you told me to. Or at all. I thought that if you wanted to punish me, you should be the one to do it. If I wanted to get myself off, I wouldn't have –"
"I think that's enough," he cuts off. She stops talking, understanding that he can, will, and probably already has filled in the rest of that sentence. He knows her almost as well as she knows herself; nothing more needs to be said on her part.
But if he can read her well, she thinks she isn't as talented at the reverse. In her head, he draws the moment out, makes her beg for forgiveness before he starts. In reality...
The first blow lands before she even notices that he's raised his hand into the air. The wooden brush is harsher than his hand, makes her scream in equal parts pain and surprise as soon as he makes contact.
When he first spanked her, he paused to give her a chance to stop him. Tonight she isn't so fortunate. The rules have been distinctly drawn for them both now, and they both know the word she must say if things become too painful or frightening. Language is on her side, and the power is in her hands firmly; she doesn't need an opening permitted by him to stop the act. She has one automatically if she needs it. He acts under the assumption that she doesn't.
As always, he's not wrong.
The brush smacks against her again. Heat and pain rush through her, soothed, worsened only by her wish for more. He continues, repeatedly, spanking her loudly and roughly. The act isn't as intimate as when he used his hand; it's colder and worse. If the pain she felt a couple days ago surprised her, she knows that will be nothing to how she feels tomorrow.
But God if he isn't right about it getting her off. All of his knowing taunts reverberate in her head in time with the spanking she's receiving. As the hairbrush whooshes through the air, as she cries out incoherently, mentally, she is aware enough to notice the changes in her body, the heavy desire in the pit of her stomach. It hurts – so much – but it's everything she wants and more.
She feels awful for lying. He spanks her with a loud thwack. She feels cared for and protected, somehow taken in by his control, reassured by the power she carries within her. The brush crashes against her again in several harsh, short slaps, and she's not sure she can ever be good again if he will do this to her every time she misbehaves.
It's unlikely that he cares about that. She is crying too hard to look back and see the desire in his face. She is too turned on to risk him seeing that his punishment is anything but that. But she knows by the way he is becoming rougher, faster with his slaps that he is becoming just as turned on by the act as she is. She can't be sure that he's hard, but she's willing to bet on it. If he's gotten this far, why wouldn't he enjoy seeing her sprawled out on the bed below him at his mercy? Why wouldn't he get off on spanking her red, controlling her, making her cry?
He changes his pattern with one long, furious blow. The pain too much for her to bear, her need for his dick inside of her, she screams out, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please. More."
A clattering sound fills the air as he suddenly stops. At the moment it happens, she has no idea what's going on. Tomorrow morning when she's getting ready for work, she'll find her hairbrush in the hallway and understand that the noise was him throwing the brush out of his way.
He grabs onto her tank top. "Roll over," he barks, pulling her to get his way. If she were in any way capable of comprehending anything right now, she would do it herself. Since she's not, she simply allows him to tug her into the position he wants.
Her ass burns as all of her weight suddenly rests against it, and tears slip down her cheeks in pain. He mildly pays attention to what she's doing but says nothing. Even through all of this, she knows as does he that she can say, "Yak," and end things right then and there if need be. Since she doesn't, he ignores the emotional display.
Violently, coldly he spreads her legs and even more forcefully begins to finger her. Instantly her cries of anguish turn to ones of need. Her pussy clenches against him, wanting to feel him touch every little bit of her body. Her clit seems to strain for his thumb to stray from the rest of his hand. She burns for him, throbs for the one swipe to her clitoris that will end things for her.
It, and as a result she, does not come.
He pumps his fingers inside of her in harsh jabs that are almost painful they're so rough. But she doesn't feel the pain, only the need for more.
And that is precisely what he denies her.
After a moment, he pulls out of her. She whines, and he grabs her shorts, pushes them back up around her hips.
"No," she fights, hands reaching down to stop him from dressing her once more. But she is worn out from work, from being spanked, from almost coming. He is razor sharp with his focus, and when his attentions are all on putting her clothes on, she has no chance at winning the battle. He easily knocks her hands away and ignores her.
She tries to bypass the hands that block her path, but he is quicker than she is. Leaning over her, he looks her in the eyes and shakes his head. "Listen to me, Cuddy."
"No!"
"Uh uh. You've had your freedom, and now you're going to listen to me, sweetie." He condescends with just enough edge in his voice to make her inability to get off that much worse. "When I tell you to do something, you do it. You feel that?" he asks, and she's not sure if he means the pain in her ass, the warmth in her cunt, or the vice of his hands he now has around her wrists. "All that need and nowhere for it to go? I wanted you to feel that, so you could begin to consider what you would hate doing enough to even begin to feel this way. For your list."
She blinks, frowns, whines fretfully, "But I already wrote the list."
He lets go of her hands, perhaps satisfied that she won't disobey him anymore (for now at least). Tilting his head, he kisses her forehead. "You did," he says with pride. "Like a good girl. But when I talked to you, you hadn't. And I gave you specific instructions, which you did not follow and then lied about."
"I'm sorry." She doesn't sound like it. The apology comes out more hasty than anything else, more of a hiss of frustration than a demonstration of remorse. "That's no reason to leave me like –"
"Oh but it is. You're not coming tonight." She misses his matter of fact tone, because she's too busy objecting. "No," he interrupts her dismissively. "I've made my decision, and we agreed that your holes are mine to use as I see fit."
If he's trying to keep her from coming, it's not working. His authoritative tone, the way he's laying claim to her body... it's not a turn off. He's saying that she is his, and that's all she wants right now, to be his. She just wants to orgasm as well. And why shouldn't she?
"But –"
"If I have to tell you no one more time," he warns. "You won't be coming for a week."
She swallows the "But" she wants to utter. Looking at him, she can see that he's completely serious. Her instinct is to accuse him of being ridiculous, to say that he can't possibly mean what he says. If she does that though, he will make sure she remains orgasm-less for an entire week. She could try to cheat, of course, but as he always does, he would figure it out. He would know, and what would the punishment be then? No orgasms for another full week? Two weeks? Longer?
There's no way she would survive that. He wouldn't stay away for that long. He would come over and come, and she would be asked to participate with limited enjoyment. And after years of not having someone in her bed regularly, she doesn't want to be restricted in how much she is allowed to like the sex she has.
Again, she wouldn't be able to bear that.
Which means...
She has no choice but to do as he says now.
Instantly he sees the defeat in her face and smiles. "Good."
"No, it's not."
"Don't be a baby. Besides, it's not all bad for you. Since you were capable of behaving long enough to write that list, you've earned a reward, I think." His tone doesn't make it sound like anything she wants.
When he sits on the bed next to her, she amends the statement. It is something she wants. The contents of the bulge in his pants are absolutely what she wants. But she knows even before he says it that she won't exactly get it the way she likes.
"You can suck me off. Right now."
She makes no move to do that, her eyes wide with disbelief. Angrily she starts to ask, "You think I want to –"
"I think you want my cock any way you can get it, yeah. I think you think you can fight your way into getting what you want. You can't." His bravado breaks down. "Unless you say, you know." The facade immediately returns, and the chill in his voice is more palpable than ever. "On the other hand, I know I can get my way without any fighting for what I want. You're going to let me use your mouth, because I'm telling you to. So. Unless you want that week without any orgasms, I'd get started."
She hates him. She wants him. She wants more; she wants his dick, even in this less-than-egalitarian way. "Wants" seems to be the keyword for her, desire the more apparent presence inside of her, and so it's no surprise to her or to him that he gets his way without any extra drama.
Sitting up fully, she turns to him. Her hands work on his zipper, and he seems pleased. He's the one about to get off, but the way he looks at her, she might as well be signing paperwork for him. There's no desperation about him, just quiet approval at her behavior. She supposes that's better than anything he might say right now. Her shorts are already clinging to her wet cunt, the seam rubbing torturously against her swollen clit. She doesn't need his words to make her hornier and desperate enough to beg in spite of his orders.
He has made it clear what will happen if she doesn't accept her punishment.
But all of that almost goes out the window when she pulls his erection through the opening his boxers and jeans. He's hard, precum beading along the head, begging for her to taste him. She wants to, whimpering at the thought. Seeing him though, she really just wants to put it in her pussy, sit on him and rock against him until she can't take anymore.
He understands, stroking her cheek. "You like that?" She nods her head. "You want that?"
"Yes."
"In your pussy?" She nods her head enthusiastically, hand gripping his cock as though if she has a hold of it, she'll get what she wants. He smirks. Like an asshole, she thinks, as he denies her. "Well, that's not going to happen, is it?"
She glares at him in frustration.
He grabs her by the chin roughly. "What was that?" he demands.
Cuddy senses the trouble she's in, his anger evident. Quickly she tries to smooth things over. "Nothing."
"You're right – 'nothing.' Only good girls get cocks in their tight pussies, don't they?" She doesn't answer, so he reaches behind her and spanks her once with his hand. She cries in pain, fingers slipping off of him so she can bear the blow. "Don't they?" he repeats.
"Yes."
"Yes what? Say it."
She swallows, vagina struggling to orgasm as she repeats, "Only good girls get cocks in their pussies."
"That's right. Unfortunately..." He doesn't sound too broken up about it. "You're not that good. Now get started."
There's no hesitation. It drives her crazy that this is happening, but that's not a bad feeling. As she runs her tongue along his dick, she hardly notes the frustration a saner person would feel. She's not mad that he will use her in this way, not upset. Even in not coming, she is somehow satisfied by the game they're playing. She feels the thrill of being controlled, owned, and there's no fear or regret that comes from the current dynamic.
This close to his erection, she is consumed by his attraction to her. She's the one with the spanked ass, but this, she thinks as she laves over his balls, is all for her. Kissing her way messily back to the head of his penis, she can't be upset by the way this has turned out. Their relationship right now, in this moment, is too good to feel any sort of resentment.
His hand lightly rubs against the back of her neck when she pulls the tip of him into her mouth. She lets him bob against her tongue, being careful not to allow her teeth to get in the way. It's not enough for him.
"Come on," he says with just a hint of gravel in his voice. "You can take more."
With ease she starts to do just that. Her hair falls in her face as his hard cock moves deeper inside her. He groans, stops when the head nears the back of her throat. She knows from experience that he won't be happy to leave things here. He will want more; he's just giving her time to calm herself down, to coax away whatever gag reflex might be awakening. In this particular instant, he is wise to let her wait. She is so on edge with need that she can't seem to relax enough to let him go where he needs.
"It's okay." He's gentle then, fingers rubbing her neck, others gathering her dark hair into a loose ponytail. He can't even see her eyes from this angle; she's got his dick in her mouth and face obscured by his pants. But he somehow knows what's happening. "You can do this. Just relax. Let me use you like you were made to be used." How he manages to make that sound sexy, she'll never know. "You're not gonna get sick," he reassures. "Take a few deep breaths with your nose. That's it. That's good," he coos, as she starts to relax against him. His honeyed tones help, or maybe that's just what slowing down has done. "Perfect."
As best he can, he arches his hips up. Gently he pushes himself further into her mouth until his cock is deep in her throat. He hisses, trying to hold back from fucking her in harsh strokes that will definitely make her sick right now. Tamping down his desire, House relaxes against the bed once more. The hand on her neck holds her close, so his dick stays where he wants it to be.
Perhaps his mouth opens then to offer her more reassurances. But by that point, she no longer needs them. Having adjusted to his considerable girth and the presence inside of her, she is ready. She pulls back before letting him barrel down her throat again. He shouts something that sounds like "That's – Yes!" more loudly than usual, and she has to assume that he was in the middle of saying something else when she took him by surprise.
That's hardly the last thing he says, though it certainly is the last thing she pays attention to. Her focus at that moment is on getting him off, on being used, as he has said, like she was meant to be used. Her tongue rocks against him, saliva easing his passage up and down her throat, along her mouth. He's large, almost too much so for her jaw, and he's hard, and it's all for her.
The way he wants her, she can't even believe how much time she wasted with J-Date and IVF and drunken one night stands with donors' nephews at charity events. She has been looking all this time for someone to need her, want her, to choose her. And suddenly she has everything she wants... or almost everything, an orgasm elusive for her this evening.
But that's nothing compared to what House is giving her. He has risked so much to be with her, for this. And in the pleas for her, all the encouragements, and exclamations, she can hear the willful abandonment in his voice. He has put a lot on the line, and right now with his dick where it belongs, he can't possibly care less. In that moment, they are equals. Whatever the outward appearance looks like (and what a picture it paints, with her flushed cheeks and ass and her head submissively pressed to his penis), they are in this together, each others in a way that gives them both immense power over the other.
She's thinking she wouldn't change a thing as she sucks his cock in earnest, hungrily.
And then he tugs on her hair, pulls her off of his erection. With long strings of spit attached, he slips out of her mouth.
"What are you doing?" she starts to ask. But he ignores the question.
His hand reaches for her tank top and forces it downward. Eagerly her breasts are exposed, nipples already hardened from being turned on so much. Her mouth still open and waiting, she doesn't understand what's going on.
"Don't you dare move," he orders, his free hand gripping his cock wet from her mouth.
Quickly he begins to stroke himself, jerking his body off with a frenzy she thought only existed in thirteen-year-old boys. And then he's orgasming with a shout, ropes of white come crossing the distance between their bodies.
Landing on her breasts and stomach.
The hot liquid clings to her, slips along her curves lazily, but she barely even notices it. Her gaze is trained on him as he rides out the last of his climax. Since she has been denied the right to come, she can only live vicariously through him.
She watches his face redden, features screw up as the pleasure reaches its zenith. Her own muscles tighten as though seeing him come will somehow transfer an orgasm into her body.
Sadly, that doesn't happen, and she is left watching, wanting, as he slowly relaxes into the bed.
Moments later he opens his eyes and looks at her, takes in the sight of his come on her naked chest. His gaze forces hers to follow. She focuses on the proof of her hard work on her areolas and fights the urge to eat the come off her chest. Fights it, she thinks, only because she knows he has orgasmed on her breasts for a reason, and he won't like it if she ruins it.
"There we go," he says slowly, pulling her tank top back up. Immediately the fabric sticks to her come-covered skin. It's uncomfortable, which makes her frown.
"Now you're going to make me change?" she asks unimpressed.
He looks at her carefully. "No, you're going to wear what you have on to bed."
"But I don't like it."
The expression he gives her says the, "Like I care," he doesn't. What he does say to her is, "I'm sure you don't. But you're going to wear it anyways. Know why?"
"Because you're telling me to."
"Well, there's that. But I was going to say, so that it reminds you just who's in charge here."
She pulls away from him. Arms crossed, she leans against the headboard. "I already –"
"Your behavior would suggest otherwise."
"That's because –"
"Yeah, see this is the part where you realize I don't care what your excuses are. This is the part where you understand that if you don't start doing as you're told, if you don't stop complaining, wearing a little come to bed is going to be the least of your problems."
That's probably the truth, so she decides to accept what he's done. If it becomes unbearable, she supposes she can wash it off when he sleeps. If he plans on sleeping here.
"Fine," she says tiredly. "Are you staying tonight?"
He slips his pants off entirely then tucks his softening cock back into his shorts. "Wasn't going to, but it's late. I want to sleep." Quickly he strips off his shirt.
There's no need to discuss the matter anymore. Although she'd like to be able to wash his come off, change, and sleep in peace, she's not so desperate to do any of those things that she's willing to kick him out. Besides, he would understand what that meant if she did. So she lets him brush his teeth with the spare toothbrush he's been using, lets him throw his dirty clothes around her room, lets him slip under the sheets next to her.
She shifts on the bed soon after, trying to get comfortable.
"Stop being dramatic. You're fine."
"I don't like my clothes sticking to me."
He wasn't lying when he said he wanted to sleep. Because despite his threats only minutes ago, he's quickly capitulating. "Then change." He sighs like he can't even believe this is happening. "Who cares?"
"You said –"
"I don't want to deal with your whining anymore. So change if you want to."
This isn't a trick, she realizes. He's not offering her the solution to see what she'll do, to find new ways of punishing her when she takes the bait. He's actually giving in, the frustration in his voice making that obvious. He doesn't care what she does, because he's tired and not in the mood, and she thinks she should take advantage of his state to get what she wants.
Instead, she stops fighting him on this. She falls silent beside him. As much as she would like to change, she's not so pathetic that she'll take advantage of him when he's too exhausted to fight. She would rather get her way, because she's earned it, not because he's capitulated before the argument has even begun.
"You're insane," he scoffs, burying his head into her pillow when it's obvious she won't put on different clothes after all.
She turns her head toward him. "I must be." At that, she can feel his gaze on her. He assumes there's regret in her words, shame maybe for the way she has let him treat her tonight and in previous nights. He would be wrong about that though, and she hopes to cut off any second guessing by telling him, "Don't read anything into that. I just changed my mind about the clothes, all right?"
"If you say so."
"I do."
Then he can't resist. "Well we both you're such a woman of your word."
"Like it would be as fun for you if I openly admitted what –"
"Fun for me?" He chuckles, kisses the back of her neck. "I'm pretty sure if anyone's getting off on the –"
"Last I checked, I didn't get off at all."
"Poor baby."
His arm snakes around her waist, and she flirts with the idea that it will lead to something more. The only thing it leads to is more conversation.
As she tries to hide her disappointment, House tells her, "Assuming I solve my case tomorrow, I'm going to ask Wilson to the movies. I think he has another date."
"So I should be prepared for another conversation with him." She feels him nod his head. "And if you don't save your patient's life?"
"Technically even if I figure out what the problem is, I still might not save his –"
"You know what I mean."
"Don't get snappy."
"I'm not."
"You –"
"I said I'm not." His silence is his way of saying that she is. "Fine. Maybe I am a little bit."
"A little bit?"
"Would you just answer the question?"
"If I can slip away, I will. If not, I'll ask Wilson to make up for not taking me to the movies on Tuesday."
"He has another date on Tuesday?"
"No, you have a meeting on Tuesday."
She sighs and rolls over to look at him. "You looked at my calendar."
He shrugs innocently. "You didn't think that I would? It's lying on your coffee table next to your little list."
"Oh," she says in surprise. Then she realizes the flaw. "But if I have a meeting, why would you –"
"Because I want to know who Wilson's dating. And I'm not going to know the answer to that if I spend all my time with you." He must think that he sounds unappreciative of their relationship, ambivalent about it. He clarifies, "Not that I'm not enjoying this, because I am. And I want that to continue. But if I don't start interfering with Wilson just a little bit, that's going to be a reason for suspicion." That makes sense, she guesses. "And I don't think you want him snooping around our relationship just yet."
"No, you're right." She just doesn't want his friendship with Wilson, this obsession to know everything about him and the people he sleeps with, to interfere with anything else. She knows how House gets. Once he starts digging into something, he can't stop until he's reached the bottom. Whoever Wilson is with, she's someone that he doesn't want House to know about. And whether that's because Wilson thinks the relationship could be serious or because she's someone House knows or will hate is impossible to say. But what Wilson's secrecy suggests to Cuddy is that the puzzle is juicy enough to entice her boyfriend. She doesn't want their relationship to play second fiddle to House's curiosity. She doesn't want to think what it means if he ends up prioritizing Wilson over her.
In the end, she simplifies matters by telling House, "Just remember who's wearing your come right now."
There's a pause, a gentle hand running along her hipbone. Then he can't resist.
"So what you're saying is I have to hire Taub."
Repulsed at the mental picture, she turns away from him. "That's disgusting."
He tries to allay her fears by saying, "I'll keep that in mind, okay? I won't forget –"
"You better," she tells him in a voice that lets him know:
He may be the one doing the spanking, but he certainly isn't the only one who can make threats.
To be continued
